There was a time I could not wait to get out of my small Texas town. Escape from, not only the city but, the life that it represented.  I had big dreams. New York dreams. I imagined myself waiting tables during the day and doing stand-up comedy at night. The plan was to get discovered, land a spot on Saturday Night Live, and never look back. Had I ever done stand-up before? Not once. But thirteen-year-old me did not care. I just wanted out. My best friend and I would improvise skits and make every silly thing we said into a bit. I can remember dancing around singing “mama, chaquita, mama, chaquita” and laughing hysterically. We were naturals at this comedy thing. (or at least that’s what we told ourselves)

I wanted out of LaPorte and everything it held for me. I wanted out of the old crooked pier and beam house I shared with my disabled grandmother, which we could only afford because her sister owned it. I wanted out of a life held together by food stamps, food banks, and weekly visits to “the bread place” for pastries that the local grocery store had marked out of date. I wanted out of the constant shame that came with not having the right clothes, the right family, or enough money to join my friends for lunch after church.

That house had foundation issues, and when it rained, the wooden door would swell and refuse to close. We had a hole in the bathroom behind the tub where our cats could come and go as they pleased, except that the mice would also find their way into our home through the same hole.  We had an old toilet in the front yard that became a makeshift flowerpot, and my grandma, whom I loved deeply, smoked inside the house. I remember being told I stunk more than once, by classmates and even church kids, and how that shame clung to me tighter than the smoke ever did.

So I became a professional pretender. I lied. I exaggerated. I made up stories to seem like someone, anyone, other than the girl I believed I had to hide.  When I was seventeen, I had the chance to attend a discipleship training internship, and I loaded up my clothes in black trash bags, because that was all we had. I was so excited to be leaving and I thought I finally had a chance at a fresh start. What I had instead was well-meaning people telling me they were going to fix me, which only made me feel more broken. I didn’t know how to say it at the time, but those words carved insecurity even deeper. I already felt like I was not enough, and now I was certain of it.

I wish I could say I had some lightbulb moment in my teens, and everything got better. But it didn’t. It took decades. Decades of striving. Decades of comparing myself to people who did not know my story. Decades of chasing my own goals and wondering why none of it filled the gap inside me. It took full-on surrender. It meant laying down the dreams I had carefully constructed. Letting go of who I thought I needed to become in order to be loved or worthy. It took giving God access to the parts of me I still tried to control, the ones I believed were too messy, too shameful, or too broken to be useful.

And here is what I have learned. When you finally let God meet you right where you are, in the middle of your raw, real life, He does.

“Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, the new creation has come. The old has gone, the new is here.” 2 Corinthians 5:17

Now here is the thing. I am still loud. I am still silly. I am not everyone’s cup of tea. But I have made peace with that. I believe God made me this way on purpose. I am confident that He is using this whole messy, beautiful, tangled-up story of mine for something that matters.

And in case you are wondering, I never moved to New York. I never even left Texas. Actually, my husband and I just bought our first home in the very same small town I once could not wait to escape. Only God… Only God could take the place I once despised and turn it into the place I love. Only He could turn my shame into compassion. Only He could use my story, not in spite of the mess, but because of it.

“Those who look to Him are radiant. Their faces are never covered with shame.” Psalm 34:5

I think about that younger version of me, the one who lied to feel seen and became whoever she needed to be to feel worthy. And honestly, I do not know her. Not anymore. She was exhausted. She was performing. She was surviving.

If I could go back and sit beside that younger version of me, the girl stuffing clothes into black trash bags, hoping no one would notice the smell of smoke clinging to her hoodie, I would wrap my arms around her and whisper the truth she never knew she needed. You are not something to escape. Who you are is enough. You do not have to pretend. You do not have to perform. You do not have to become someone else to be worthy of love. You are not too loud. You are not too messy. You are not too broken. You are seen. You are valued. And you are already deeply, completely loved by a God who is not waiting for a future version of you. He delights in you right now, just as you are.

What about me now? I am walking in freedom. I am living in truth. Life is still messy. It is still unpredictable. And I am still imperfect and lacking in so many ways. But who I am (both the parts that reflect growth and the parts still in progress) is fully rooted in Jesus. Because of that, I no longer have to strive to be someone else. I no longer measure my worth by my performance or perfection. I am secure in the truth that He is not finished with me, and that His grace is enough for every part of my story.

And let me be honest, it is not like those insecure thoughts never show back up. I would be lying if I said I never struggle with feeling like I am not enough now. I still worry. I still hear that voice in my head. I still notice when people subtly move away from me in a room, or when someone gives a sideways glance because I laughed a little too loud. In those moments, that younger version of me, the one who felt like she had to shrink, hide, or change to be accepted, comes rushing back. She whispers that I am too much, too messy, too loud, and not enough all at the same time. But now, I know how to fight back. I know how to recognize the lies and speak truth over them. I know Who to hand it to. I take those thoughts, those moments of self-doubt, and I give them to the One who has never asked me to be less than who He created me to be. I lean into His voice, the one that calls me chosen, loved, and worthy, and I let Him remind me that I am already enough in Him.

If you are in the middle of the decades, still trying to figure out if God can use someone like you, still holding on tightly to your plans and afraid to let go, you are not alone. But you do not have to stay there. You are not too much. You are not too late. You are not too messy for the God who created you with intention. He has a plan. He sees the whole picture, and He is not done writing your story.

I will not lie to you. Allowing God to free you from your past isn’t passive. It takes audacious faith. It takes trusting Him with the parts of your story you would rather keep hidden. It takes courage to believe that He can redeem the broken pieces and turn them into something beautiful. The kind of faith that says, even though I still feel unworthy, I am going to trust that God calls me worthy anyway. It is the kind of faith that walks away from shame even when it feels familiar, that chooses healing even when hiding feels safer, and that lets go of old identities to cling to the truth that we are made new in Christ. But I promise, when you finally surrender and let Him in, there is a kind of freedom and peace that only He can give. And it is worth everything.

Tracie Tevault is a recent addition to the STXWM blog team. Married for 15 years to her best friend, Tracie is raising one awesome son and three spoiled cats. With a heart for ministry, Tracie has served in many areas, but her true passion lies in reaching those who might not fit the traditional church mold. She’s all about showing people they are loved, valued, and created with a purpose.